by Rhett DeVane
Elsbeth envied Brick a little. Some of his fantasy talent would come in handy during the long winter months when all she saw were the dirt walls of their burrows, the same faces day after day, and an occasional earthworm.
Elsbeth spun around and left the hall, heading toward the boys’ quarters.
“That girl’s gone winter-wild.” One of them said it and the others agreed. Elsbeth didn’t bother to whip back around and offer an argument. Yes, she was a little cave-bound, but who wasn’t? When she was able to crawl to the surface, she planned to kiss the ground, even if it stood ankle deep in melting snow muck.
The first doorway on the right barely showed amidst the clutter of rocks, stacks of cut oak branches, and knurls of mountain ash. Elsbeth turned in and followed the narrow tunnel until it opened to a cave the same size as hers.
Elsbeth paused to marvel at The First Father’s private quarters.
How could Sim live in such clutter? His rock collection infested the room, spilling over the tablerock, hearth, and most of the hard-packed floor. Sure, some were pretty. Elsbeth cherished the pink quartz cluster Sim had given her on the first long winter. But many of these rocks had nothing attractive about them.
A narrow pathway wove between the piles, barely wide enough for her to pass. The shelves bulged with Sim’s woodcarvings. At first, he had worked on sections of oak limbs, fashioning walking sticks with notches and fanciful creatures. The one Sim made for Elsbeth had a wooden likeness of their long-deceased friend Benjamin, one of the Pensworthy owls, perched on the top.
In recent years, Sim’s craft had extended to musical instruments and bowls shaped from burls of mountain ash. Amid the rock clutter, a small chest stood, complete except for drawer pulls. Was he building furniture now? Maybe it was a Spring Festival gift for someone. Elsbeth hoped, for her.
She cupped her hand over her nose. The cave needed some dried herbs to chase off the musty smell. Sim probably didn’t notice the stale odor lurking beneath the twang of wood curls.
Her gaze roamed the room, searching for clues. The peg where Sim normally hung his collection pack was empty. Not good. Sim took that every time he left to dump-dive. His favorite hiking stick, the one with the hawk-head handle was missing too. She peered through the shadows. The bedroll wasn’t there either.
“You crazy boy.” Elsbeth spotted a smoky quartz cluster resting atop a piece of rolled-up paper. She picked it up, uncurled it, and read Sim’s scrawling script.
Dear L. the L.,
Elsbeth twisted her lips at the shortened version of her nickname, Lizard the Lousy. Sim had called her lizard for years—even before they had fled the orphanage in New Haven City. He added the lousy part for the cranky disposition Elsbeth developed during the long underground winters.
She brushed aside her irritation and read on.
Gone for a couple of days. Beat you to the dump this year! Hah!
Elsbeth groaned. Why hadn’t Sim left this note on the Common Room board? When she unfurled the scroll, she read his last line. As if he had read her mind.
’Cause you’d go all Lizard the Lousy and try to stop me. That’s why.
“You silly goof!”
She flipped over the paper. More writing, in careful block letters.
I’m with him. Grant.
Some of Elsbeth’s anxiety eased. If Sim had to jumpstart spring, at least Grant was along. Someone with some sense. She rolled up the little scroll and shoved it into her robe pocket. Should she tell Taproot?
No. The old magician would snarl if she interrupted his preparations for the Spring Festival of Light. Even without his dither and plans for a walkabout, whatever that was.
Slate’s dream vision had to be a mistake.
Elsbeth spoke aloud, as if Sim’s room held enough magic to send her message to him. “You better bring back something really, really good.”
Chapter Four
Grant stood at the edge of the landfill, lifting his nose to sniff the air. “Sky to the west promises snow.” A line of clouds hung low over the horizon, ominous. A changing wind pushed the evergreens lining the dump pit.
Sim attached his knife and a wind-up flashlight to the carabiner clips on his belt. “Too late in the season for snow. Probably just a little rain. I won’t melt, will you?” He secured his tether line to a small sapling. “Take first dive watch. I’m going in.”
“The usual path is blocked.”
“I see that.” Sim motioned toward a stack of rotted lumber still clotted with snow. “Should be able to enter through there. You worry more than Elsbeth.” He patted Grant on the shoulder then walked to the wood pile. In seconds, Sim disappeared and his safety line trailed behind him.
Grant’s dark eyes skimmed the area above the landfill, vigilant for predators. He let his vision go slightly off focus, to detect slight movement. It wasn’t the things he could readily see that worried him, but those that barely shifted until it was too late to avoid their attack.
Watchers in the woods waited. He was sure of it.
The daylight hours made him twitchy, but dump-diving required some illumination. Little sunlight filtered through the layers of trash. Plus, the rats! No matter how often he entered the mounds of rotting refuse, Grant had a hard time warming up to the vile creatures. They reeked of decay. Then there were the maggots, though the cold temperatures prevented many of them now.
Two buzzards pulled lazy circles in the azure sky. Not such a great hunting day for scavengers. Usually, they appeared in the warm months to feast on rotting carcasses. Nature wasn’t acting the ways it should, from what he gathered. The lowlanders and their “science” interrupted the set rhythms of the seasons.
Grant’s hand cupped around the acorn-shaped pendant. His spirit-son grew inside, almost ready for the one-spirit magic to bring him into the world. In the past week, the woody acorn had shifted to its crystal form, signaling that the time for the birth grew close. Grant had never anticipated the Spring Festival as he did this year.
Like all youngers, the little one would possess knowledge, so unlike the mewling babies of the lowlanders. As his spirit-father, Grant would teach the child to use his inborn one-spirit’s wisdom. Above all the things Grant treasured—his books, maps, the ability to think through most any situation—the small creature growing inside the pendant held the most important spot. He would do anything to protect his spirit-son.
Grant watched the edge of gray clouds approaching from the west. The icy breezes would drive the buzzards to shelter soon.
He and Sim should seek that same shelter.
Something brushed Elsbeth’s back. She jerked so hard, she narrowly avoided toppling into a tower of stacked slate.
“Whoa!” Jondu grabbed Elsbeth’s arm and steadied her.
Elsbeth held one palm over her heart. “Oh. It’s just you.”
“Who’d you think it was?” Jondu flicked up one eyebrow. “Maybe an evil rock monster that guards Sim’s stuff?”
“Not like I’d take anything.” Elsbeth’s gaze took in the messy room. “Except that chunk of smoky quartz. Could use it as a book prop.” She smiled. “Sim would never miss it, not in this muddle.”
Jondu picked up the gemstone: a semi-transparent gray with wispy streaks of black inside, like trapped spider webs. “Soon as I can go topside, I’ll pick up a prettier one for you. I’m good at finding things.” She set down the quartz and cocked her head, studying The First Mother. “So . . . what are you doing in Sim’s cave?”
Might as well talk. Secrets never worked in the clan. They created division. Not good for a small group cooped up together for months at a time.
“Slate had one of his dreams,” Elsbeth said. “A bad one. Thought it might be connected to Sim.” A wave of fresh panic rippled the tiny hairs on the back of Elsbeth’s neck. Not a good sign.
Jondu pursed her lips. She scanned the room for a place to sit. “This is heavy talk. I could use a cup of tonic.”
“Doubt you’ll find one here.”
<
br /> “Want to go hang at the Hall?”
Elsbeth nodded and they picked their way back to the main tunnel.
“How did you . . .?” Elsbeth started. “Never mind.” Silly to think the whole clan didn’t know of the seer’s dream by now and had figured out she was upset. Just as well. Fear shared equaled fear divided. Elsbeth felt better already.
The clouds hung low and steely, like the curled undercoat of a gray mountain lynx. The weather front inched slowly, so Sim and Grant had stolen a few extra hours to explore one corner of the dump where the trash proved rewarding.
Grant stooped under the weight of his loaded pack. “We’d best try to at least make it beyond Mad Man’s Pass and the river before sundown.” He patted the birth pod, making sure it rested secure beneath his collar. “I’ll feel better as soon as we reach the valley.”
The dive had been a success. Sim had found an old wooden sewing box filled with needles and thread, and discarded clothing, enough for several robes. Mari would be ecstatic! Like his, Grant’s pack bulged with an unopened can of sweet corn, but they had to leave most of the cache hidden in the woods near the dump. Later, they could bring others to help carry the food back to the clangrounds. Too bad they couldn’t use magic to shrink the cans of pinto beans, corn, and soup.
“Wish we had room to take those partial jars of spices, especially the cinnamon.” Sim shifted his pack to ease the cramp in one shoulder. “Haven’t had cinnamon in years. Good on acorn cakes with honey.”
Sim took the lead, but the pack slowed his pace. As they reached the boulder field at the crest of Mad Man’s Pass, the sky spit a few flakes of frozen rain. Snow would be better. It crunched underfoot, but didn’t cause his feet to slip and slide like the ice.
“Do you want to make camp beneath the boulders?” Grant asked, his eyes searching the clouds. “Maybe we should turn back.”
“Let’s press on. I’m sure we can make it over the river.” A copse of hickory trees marked the opposite shore of Mad Woman River, a spot they often used for night camp.
By the time they reached the riverbank, the frozen rain had switched to snow flurries. The sapling bridge shimmered with a dusty layer.
“Let me go first.” Sim cinched his pack strap tight and shifted the weight until it felt more balanced. He took the first steps, testing the surface. Beneath the white frosting, the bark seemed solid, not soggy or slick. “It’s not bad at all. A complete klutz could make it across.” He finished passage at a fast pace then turned to face Grant.
The sound of clumping steps echoed through the evergreens, rising over the wail of Mad Woman River. Grant and Sim turned toward the noise. Bear? No. This being had two feet and was heavier than most mountain creatures.
Grant’s head swung from side to side, searching for cover. The footsteps thudded louder.
“Hurry!” Sim shouted.
Grant protected the birth pendant with one hand, shifted his pack and stepped onto the sapling. When he reached the midpoint, the brush parted behind him. A tall lowlander stepped out. In that second, Grant lost his footing.
Sim watched, his mouth agape. Grant tumbled into the river. The pack dragged with the current, dashing Grant’s body against one rock, then another, and another.
The lowlander ran to the edge of the water, took two giant steps, and scooped Grant into his hand.
Sim dove into a patch of pine seedlings. His breath came out in chilled puffs. His hand slipped to the knife scabbard. What chance would a blade less than an inch long have against the lowlander? Judging by his clothing, this man was no ordinary lowlander. Worse. He was a soldier.
Sim watched the man return to the bank and crouch down to study the limp form in his hand. He poked at Grant like Sim often jabbed at ant hills or a rat snake. Anger bubbled up inside Sim. Stop! that’s my first spirit-son! The furious thought erupted, but he couldn’t move.
What was the man doing? The soldier reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of string, then tied it around Grant. He was roping him like some animal! Before Sim could force himself to do something, anything, the lowlander stood. He wrapped Grant’s still body in a dark-colored cloth and slipped it inside his jacket.
The man scanned the sky, the same way the clan did to judge the progress of the weather. He crossed the river in five easy steps, without any sort of bridge, and crunched off into the woods.
Sim shucked the heavy pack and scampered back across the sapling bridge to the spot where the lowlander had first stood.
An odd metallic smell twanged his nose. Next to the depressions left by the lowlander’s boots, Sim noted two bright red stains against the pristine snow.
Blood.
Chapter Five
When Elsbeth and Jondu entered the Common Hall, Elsbeth spotted her third spirit-daughter Taka-Herb bent over a steaming kettle.
“There you are.” Taka-Herb added a pinch of something to the kettle. The pungent scent of steeped medicinal plants blended with the aroma of the turnip stew and acorn bread.
“Valerian root,” Jondu identified the herb. “Excellent for settling the nerves.”
“Good nose,” Taka-Herb said. “I’ll make an herbalist of you yet.”
Jondu dismissed the comment with a wave. “Only as much as I need to know for my expeditions.”
Where had this spirit-child’s restlessness come from? Had Elsbeth dreamed of leaving the protection of the peaceful valley as she captured two tears into the birth crystal? Jondu was as different from Elsbeth as Jen, Mari, or Taka-Herb. As unique as shades of emotion could be, she supposed.
Mari and Jen joined the group. Everyone jabbered at once. The voices twirled and blended like the cooking aromas. For a moment, Elsbeth pushed aside her concerns for Sim and Grant—until Slate leaned over and said in a low voice, “Will you tell Taproot about my vision?”
The conversations halted. The clan waited.
Taproot. At his best, the old magician growled until he could go topside. Add to that his frenzied preparations for the Spring Festival and his walkabout.
“No.” Elsbeth touched the pendant she wore, a time-smoothed piece of Jen’s birth crystal. It rested next to the cherished heart-shaped locket Sim had found dump-diving during the first year. “We won’t bother Taproot with this. Sim and Grant will be back in a couple of days.” She hoped. “They’ll be fine.”
“My achy knee tells me another storm is coming,” Taka-Herb said. “Not a good time to be tromping around the dump.”
“What if they don’t make it back?” Slate asked.
“Then Jen and I will go find them,” Jondu stated with more conviction than Elsbeth could muster.
Jen jumped. Her hand fluttered to the birth crystal.
“What’s wrong?” Taka-Herb asked. “You look like you’d been stung by a wild mountain bee.”
“I don’t know.” Jen pulled the crystal from beneath the rim of her robe and turned it in her palm. “It kind of . . . vibrated.”
Sim traversed the sapling bridge and dashed toward the spot where he’d dropped the pack. He removed the wind-up flashlight, extra knife, and two bags of dried plums. No way could he travel quickly with the loaded backpack. He stuffed it behind a boulder, not bothering to cover it with leaves and twigs. Nothing would bother a pack without food. Wild creatures didn’t appreciate cloth and thread like Mari, and the can offered no enticing hints of its contents.
Snowflakes peppered Sim’s head and shoulders. The soldier’s boot prints still showed, sunken deep in the first layer of snow. Soon, they would fade and so would the chances of trailing the man.
“Has to be heading to the base.” Sim checked the direction of the prints. Without the sun’s shadows to discern east from west, Sim relied on other signs. Moss usually shunned the direct sun and grew thicker on the north side of the trees. But that wasn’t always the case. Taproot taught that moss could grow most anywhere it found moisture and shade. He watched the movement of the low clouds. Generally, they shifted from west to east
. From Mad Man’s Pass, the army base was due northwest. Same way the soldier was heading.
He took a moment to consider. Grant was better at weighing options. Sim felt more comfortable with split decisions based on whims.
“Fastest way is cross country, following the soldier’s lead.” But there was no game trail in case he lost the tracks. Safest path would be back toward the valley then due north on the old dump trail that he used when he went to scrounge the base dumpsters.
“If he’s even going to the base.” Sim frowned. “But with the storm, why wouldn’t he be heading toward his kind?”
The thought of facing down soldiers made his heart beat harder. His dad had been the resistance army leader, and his position had gotten him killed. Soldiers had robbed Sim of his lowlander boyhood, his family, and his home. He’d be hanged if one took his first spirit-son too!
The snow shimmered down, heavier now, and the wind picked up to a low whine. No time to stand with his feet ice cold and have a conversation with himself, trying to predict which direction he should chose. Sim shucked his gloves, spit in his left palm, then slapped the moist glob with a finger. Most of the spit splattered to the right, in the same direction of the soldier’s path. As good a way as any to figure out how to proceed. He pulled on his gloves and scampered from one boot impression to the next.
Darkness crept into the deep woods sooner than it did on the open game path. After a couple of miles, Sim strained to see the next boot print. The temperature plunged. He snugged his jacket and scarf closer. No way to tell how much farther to the army base. Sim figured Taproot had dragged him and the clan on every switchback in this part of the Emerald Mountains, but he had never walked this tract.
Winter had stripped the hardwoods of foliage, leaving only the evergreens’ meager cover. The snowfall dimmed all sound except for the soft shush of his footsteps. Sim looked up. A figure watched from a high limb. Sim imagined how he might look—a tiny wiggling dot against the white. Easy prey, even in the fading light.
